


Please Don't Say You Love Me (Cause' I Might Just Say It Back)

by MacksDramaticShenanigans



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 3+1 Things, Excessive Amounts of I Love Yous, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, I Love You, Light Angst, M/M, Sappy Ending, They say it so many times, first I love yous, like seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 00:15:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacksDramaticShenanigans/pseuds/MacksDramaticShenanigans
Summary: I love you.Three words a demon never expects to hear. Three words a demon never expects tosay. Angels, on the other hand, are practically made for these words. Aziraphale certainly is. All he has to do is find the right moment to say them.Crowley may have been an angel once, but even that couldn't prepare him for this.Or, three times Crowley wasn't ready to hear those three little words from Aziraphale and one time he finally is.





	Please Don't Say You Love Me (Cause' I Might Just Say It Back)

**Author's Note:**

> Hiiii friends!! I'm back with another sappy Good Omens fic! Well, sappy after a tiny bit of angst :p
> 
> This fic was born from me scrolling through my Potential Fic Titles doc and I saw the "Please Don't Say You Love Me (Cause' I Might Just Say It Back)" on there and was like holy shit. That's literally actually beyond perfect for ineffable husbands and it just kind of spiraled from there until I had this! This actually came very surprisingly easy to me to write, which is absolutely fantastic because isn't it just the best when writing something is FUN and EASY and it all just FLOWS? It's brilliant, is what it is. Anyways.
> 
> I thought I'd try my hand at a little more angst with this one (it did surprisingly well with my first GO fic!) but have no fear!! I like to think I more than make up for it with the plus one part of this 3+1! It's incredibly increidbly sappy!
> 
> A big big thank you to [AurigaCapella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AurigaCapella/pseuds/AurigaCapella) for betaing this fic, you had so so many helpful suggestions that 100% made this fic sound so much better! I appreciate your help so very much!! 
> 
> The title comes from [Please Don't Say You Love Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PxNYvk_0Onw) by Gabrielle Aplin. Very lovely song, I suggest you all give it a listen!!
> 
> Now without further ado, please please enjoy this fic as much as I enjoyed writing it!! I hope you all love it!

1.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, it really wasn’t.

All Crowley was supposed to do was tempt a high-powered businessman into dabbling in embezzlement. He didn’t know that the businessman would meet the chipper young environmental entrepreneur who was meant to do great things and effectively unravel the past _ five years _ of ground work Aziraphale had been laying for his very own assignment. _ He didn’t know _.

And if he had, he wouldn’t have done it.

Crowley would much rather take the brunt of Hell’s wrath than allow Aziraphale to get so much as a single strongly worded memo from Heaven about _ failing _. This miracle had been so undeniably important, though, and Crowley could only wish that a strongly worded memo was the extent of what Aziraphale actually received.

Heaven may pride themselves upon not being Hell, but they certainly don’t shy away from stepping so close to the very edge of distinction that the line just as well may not even exist when it comes to one of their own making a mistake. There is a reason demons are the unforgivable ones and not the unforgiving.

When Aziraphale returns from his visit to head office, there’s something off about him. The smile he gives Crowley when he sees him doesn’t reach his eyes like it usually does. The pep seems to be missing from his step. His bowtie sits crooked against his neck.

The closer he gets the more obvious it becomes. Azirapahle is well and truly rattled— Crowley knows this look well enough. There’s a lingering fear reflecting in his eyes, a terror that clings to him like a second skin.

He’s trying to put up a front, to not look as bothered by whatever just took place as he actually is, but Crowley can see right through it. 

And it makes his stomach twist.

This is all my fault. This is all my fault. _ This is all my fault _.

It echoes through Crowley’s head, it cuts him right to the core; a mantra so painful that not even the innermost circle of Hell could have come up with it. 

He’s vaguely aware that he must have made some sort of excuse to get the hell out of there, because one moment he’s there, on the sidewalk with Aziraphale, and the next he’s in his Bentley, zigzagging through traffic to get back to his flat in an even more timely manner than usual.

Crowley bursts through the door to his flat, not bothering to make sure it properly closes behind him as he staggers in. His eyes sting around the edges, so he squeezes them shut, brings his hands up to press the heels of them against his eyes, trying to stave off the inevitable. The picture of Aziraphale, small and scared, is seared into the back of his eyelids. It hurts, _ god _, does it hurt. But Crowley can’t find it in himself to let it go. He deserves to hurt for this. He caused the pain and suffering of his angel, and he deserves to hurt for it, that much he’s sure of.

He barely makes it all the way into the room before his legs give out and he crumples to the floor. And he weeps.

He doesn’t know how long he stays like this. Time escapes him until he hears his name.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale calls out, soft and tentative, like anything more would spook him. It’s far away at first, but when it comes again it’s much closer. “Crowley, my dear, are you alright?”

A gentle touch to his back accompanies the question, and Crowley flinches. That doesn’t deter Aziraphale, though. He doesn’t remove his hand, instead brings it up to Crowley’s shoulder, then to his cheek.

Crowley leans into the touch even though he knows he shouldn’t. He doesn’t deserve this tender compassion from the angel. Not when he should be the one comforting Aziraphale. Not when this never should have even happened. He lets his chin be guided up, hair falling from where it hides his tear-stained cheeks and red-rimmed eyes.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes when he sees the mess he’s made of himself. A thumb traces the path of a tear-track. “What happened?” He asks, and the carefulness of it feels like a stake to the heart.

“It’s all my fault,” Crowley whispers, shaking his head. “It’s all my fault, angel— _ Aziraphale _. I’m s… I’m so s—” He can’t even choke the words out, the ones he so badly wants to say. It makes him hate himself a little bit more. 

“My dear, what’s your fault? What is it?” Aziraphale asks, kneeling beside Crowley. There’s an edge of bewilderment to Aziraphale’s tone, like he genuinely has no idea what’s got Crowley acting this way.

Crowley meets Aziraphale’s eyes for the first time since he found him like this. His heart aches painfully in his chest. “Your _ punishment _,” he says, and the word burns his tongue as it rolls off. “I’m the cause of it. That businessman? The one your fellow met? Me. He was mine, all mine. My doing. My fault. My temptation toppled your entire miracle. All that work you put into it just… poof.” He lets out a shuddery breath. “If it weren’t for me, you’d be getting a commendation, not a bloody castigation.”

A flash of surprise etches itself across Aziraphale’s face, but it’s quickly replaced by drooping eyebrows and sad eyes. A sympathetic crease forms in his forehead. Aziraphale’s lips turn down at the corner, not disappointed, but sorrowful.

Rather than say anything, Aziraphale just curls his hands over Crowley’s shoulders and pulls him into his chest. His arms fold around Crowley, tucking him into the comforting embrace so wholly, so completely that it’s entirely overwhelming to Crowley.

He can’t find it in himself to fight it as his resolve crumbles and wetness springs to his eyes once more. Crowley buries his face into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck and lets himself cry again.

When the last of the tears fall and they finally break apart some minutes later, Crowley leans back just enough that he can meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Why did you do that?” He asks. “You didn’t need to do that. You _ shouldn’t have _ done that.”

Aziraphale’s eyes droop at the corners, like a sad puppy, and he shakes his head. “Nothing breaks my heart more than seeing you cry,” he tells Crowley sincerely. “You may be a demon, but there is not a malicious bone in your body, my dear. I know you didn’t mean for this to happen. It’s not your fault.” A wave of self-loathing floods through Crowley, sending his heart to his throat.

And then Aziraphale goes and makes it worse.

“I did it because you looked like you needed it.” His features soften. “And because I lo—” 

Crowley jerks away with a hiss like he’s been burned by the holiest of water. And he might as well have been, what with the way the implications of those words leave him feeling stripped and raw.

The abruptness of his movement sends Aziraphale into a fit of apologies, each one like a slap to the face. Another spike of pain shooting directly into his heart. 

_ Of course _ Aziraphale would choose to forgive him. _ Of course _ he’d offer up his comfort and his compassion. _ Of bloody course _ he wouldn't blame Crowley for any of this. He’s an _ angel _. Forgiveness is what he does.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less. In fact, it makes it hurt a thousand times more. Especially when he tries to say _ those words _ again. In this moment of all moments. _ It hurts so bad _.

Because there’s absolutely no way that it can be true. He _ can’t _ . How could he? Crowley is a _ demon _; he’s unlovable by nature. Not worthy of it. Not deserving. Especially not from an angel. Especially not from Aziraphale.

“Shut up!” Crowley lashes out suddenly. “Stop apologizing!” He hisses. “I don’t deserve your apologies. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I don’t deserve your—” He cuts himself off with a harsh swallow. He tucks his chin to his chest and casts his eyes down.

A silence falls between them, and the guilt begins to eat away at Crowley. He shouldn’t have snapped. Just like he doesn’t deserve Aziraphale’s grace, Aziraphale doesn’t deserve his wrath. He’s been nothing but kind this entire time.

“Angel,” Crowley croaks, eyes flickering back up. “I… shouldn’t have raised my voice. I… appreciate what you’re trying to do, but I think I’d like to be alone right now.”

It pains him to say that. He’d like nothing more than to be wrapped up in Aziraphale’s arms again, to feel his warmth against his skin and his comfort surrounding him like a blanket. 

Aziraphale looks crestfallen, like it’s somehow _ his _fault, not Crowley’s. “Yes, yes, of course,” he says softly. “I’m…” he stops, looking suddenly nervous. Like perhaps Crowley might snap at him again. Something awful coils in Crowley’s gut. Aziraphale twists his fingers in front of himself. “You can telephone me at any time if you need to. Whenever you need to. I’ll… I’ll always pick up, Crowley.”

The ‘I’m not angry with you’ and the ‘I won’t shut you out’ are silent, but they’re there.

2.

It’s not the first time that Crowley has sat in the backroom of Aziraphale’s bookshop, surrounded by bottles of Châteauneuf-du-Pape with a full glass in his hand and a rosy alcohol-induced flush high in his cheeks. 

It’s also far from the last time Crowley expects he’ll find himself in this very position. Still, it’s one of his favorite pastimes.

They’re drunk, him and Aziraphale. And they’re close too, closer than they usually are— how did they get so close? Both of them are squished together onto one too small loveseat rather than their respective separate armchairs, their legs pressed together from thigh to knee. Crowley’s skin tingles where they touch.

Crowley shifts his eyes from his glass over to Aziraphale, just in time for Aziraphale’s hand to find a home against Crowley’s face. It’s startling, more than Crowley would admit, and he freezes up for a moment, too stunned to do anything but just sit there and let it happen.

The heel of Aziraphale’s hand sweeps against Crowley’s cheekbone as his fingers push a loose strand of Crowley’s hair from his face, tucking it back behind his ear.

There’s an intense look on Aziraphale’s face. His eyes bore back into Crowley’s, so directly it almost feels like he knows what Crowley is thinking. But there’s something very candid about the stare, too, something so open. It makes Crowley’s stomach swoop. He can practically hear the words he knows are balancing on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue; they don’t even need to be spoken. That look on Aziraphale’s face says it all, really.

Crowley closes his eyes and draws in an unsteady breath. It’s too much. His own fingers come up to curl around Aziraphale’s wrist. He can feel his pulse beneath his thumb. It beats slow and sure, steady and calm— the complete opposite of how Crowley feels.

Aziraphale’s thumb grazes Crowley’s cheek, moving dangerously close to the edge of his mouth, and Crowley releases his shuddery breath.

“You know, I’ve always loved your hair,” Aziraphale starts softly. “And I think… I think, deep down, I’ve rather always lo—”

“Don’t,” Crowley says softly, barely above a whisper, before Aziraphale can finish. He keeps his eyes closed. 

Everything is fragile. Like one wrong move, one wrong word, one wrong _ breath _might send it all shattering to the ground. Into a million delicate pieces.

Crowley can hear Aziraphale’s breath, soft and even. And his own, shallow and ragged. 

Slowly, hesitantly, Crowley opens his eyes, desperately wishing he hadn’t shed his sunglasses earlier in the evening. It had been Aziraphale’s suggestion, and while Crowley was meant to be the tempter of the pair, he found himself unable to deny his angel anything.

Aziraphale’s eyes stare back into his own; bright, honest blue into dark, sulfuric yellow.

Again, it’s all too much. He can’t hide from Aziraphale this way. Not like this. Without his Valentino’s as his shield, Crowley feels exposed. Bare. Naked. Like the entirety of him is on display, all his feelings and emotions advertised right there in his eyes.

Yet another thing he hates them for.

Aziraphale hasn’t let go of Crowley’s face yet. But, then again, Crowley hasn’t released his wrist either. 

Still, neither of them move to separate.

Then Aziraphale starts to lean in, and utter devastation spills across Crowley’s features like ink across parchment.

“Aziraphale, _ please _,” Crowley begs, voice strained. He doesn't mean to sound so broken.

“O-oh,” Aziraphale says, blinking quickly as he pulls himself out of Crowley’s space. His whole body shifts back, and he withdraws his hand and lets it fall down to his lap where he picks at a loose thread in his waistcoat. 

The absence of warmth against Crowley’s cheek is stark. He doesn’t like it. 

“I’m sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley keeps his eyes shut for a moment longer, mourning the loss, before they flicker back open. He immediately reaches for his sunglasses, which lie carelessly amongst the empty wine bottles, and slides them up the bridge of his nose. It does very little to make him feel better. Aziraphale’s already seen too much of him.

“My dear,” Aziraphale tries again, lifting his hand like he’s going to reach out and touch. But it freezes as he remembers how Crowley shied away from him, and he lets it fall limply back to his lap. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Or make you uncomfortable,” he continues.

Oh, Heaven’s no. He hadn’t made Crowley uncomfortable at all. Quite the opposite, really. He’d been about to play right into Crowley’s deepest desires. But if he did, if he had uttered those three tiny, yet infinitely huge words… well, it’s a little bit terrifying. The last time he’d ever felt this way about someone and voiced it so openly, that very entity cast him out. Pushed him away. Rejected him.

“I’m terribly sorry, I am.” Aziraphale tears his eyes from his fingers and brings them back up to Crowley. “Oh, do sit back down, dear boy. I’ll pour you another glass, yes? Don’t leave yet.”

Crowley hadn’t even realized he’d risen to his feet.

The thing is, it isn’t even that Crowley doesn’t want to hear it, because he does— _ Satan _, he does. It might be the only thing he’s ever wanted this badly in his existence. There’s a lot he would do to hear those words fall from Aziraphale’s lips. 

But he can’t let him say them. He can’t because if he does, Crowley might just let himself say those three little words back. And he won’t have anyone to stop him.

And he’s drunk. Aziraphale is drunk, and Crowley hates that he thinks this, but he isn’t sure if Aziraphale would still want to say them if he were sober. His ears ring with “fraternize,” “hereditary enemies,” “I don’t even like you.” Aziraphale had been plenty clear and sober then.

“It’s alright, Angel. It’s getting late anyways. I probably should go,” Crowley says and points towards the door. “The, erm, plants. Left ‘em on their own for far too long, I have. Who knows what the little bastards have gotten up to.”

A small frown tugs at the corners of Aziraphale’s mouth, and he stands up as well. He takes a step towards Crowley. “Crowley, I—”

“Ciao, Angel,” Crowley interrupts, throwing a fleeting wave over his shoulder, already halfway to the front door.

He can’t take that risk.

3.

Crowley shifts the package from hand to hand as he exits the Bentley and strolls the short distance from his parking space to the front door of the bookshop. It’s wrapped— rather poorly— in brown paper and Crowley tried to spruce it up a bit by adding a red ribbon around the middle. (He’d first tied the package up with a simple piece of string, but then thought it better to discard. He couldn’t have a _ Sound of Music _ reference ruining Aziraphale’s mood before he’d even opened the gift. Besides, the red ribbon Crowley had swapped it for added a little bit of personal flair. Aziraphale would have no trouble recognizing it was from him.)

The closed sign is flipped to the front, but Crowley ignores it and reaches for the handle anyways. It unlocks at his touch and he pushes inside. The little set of bells ringle above him.

“I’m terribly sorry, but we are very much closed— something you would have known if you had bothered to— oh!” Aziraphale cuts himself off when he looks up from his book to see Crowley, rather than the pesky customer he’d originally thought he was. “Crowley, it’s you!”

“Yes, it’s me. Who else would be able to get past your locked door?” Crowley replies cooly, sauntering towards the desk where Aziraphale sits. There’s a stack of books balancing precariously beside the ancient cash register that’s really there more for show than for actual purchases, and Crowley carefully nudges it closer to the register so he can spread both elbows on top of the counter and lean forward to rest his chin against the backs of his hands.

“I was wondering how they would have gotten in. I know I locked it,” Aziraphale mutters mostly to himself. “What are you doing here?” He directs at Crowley.

Crowley rights himself and waves his free hand vaguely through the air. “Was in the neighborhood. Just thought I’d pop in,” he answers casually, tucking the package beneath his arm so he can lean up against the counter again.

The paper rustles as he does so, drawing Aziraphale’s attention to it. An eyebrow quirks up, curiosity settling over his features. “What have you got with you, my dear?” He wonders aloud.

Crowley fights the blush that tries to rise to his cheeks already— bless these bloody human corporations and their bloody human functions— and he holds the package up. “Oh, this?” He asks, giving it a little wave. “S’just a little something I found,” he says. “For you.” He thrusts it out towards Aziraphale. 

“A gift? For me?” Aziraphale says, delighted. “Oh, Crowley, you shouldn’t have!” The beam on his face is near blinding.

“Ngk,” Crowley manages, for lack of anything better.

Aziraphale takes the package from Crowley and plucks at the ribbon. It comes loose in his hands and he sets it aside. Then he gets to work on the paper, drawing his finger along the edge and tucking it beneath the opening. He tears along the tape lines, careful not to rip it and ruin Crowley’s wrapping job— not that he could possibly ruin it anymore than Crowley already had on principle.

The paper falls away to reveal a book— the _ Voynich Manuscript _ , to be exact. It’s a rare one, a rather ancient one, one of the only copies ( _ the _ only copy, actually). It dates all the way back to the fifteenth century. Crowley had come across it much later on in the midst of a temptation and immediately remembered how Aziraphale had mentioned it in passing a few (hundred) times. 

The thing is full of puzzling symbols and illustrations of what looks to be various strains of plantlife, along with bits and pieces of text in a language that Crowley certainly doesn’t recognize, and, frankly, isn’t sure if anyone else has either. He doesn’t really know why Aziraphale had such a fascination with the book, especially since he has no partiality to medicinal practices, medieval or otherwise, but he supposes a book is a book to Aziraphale. And having a pharmacopoeia in his collection would certainly be something to check off the list.

So, of course, when Crowley happened upon it, he nicked it. And he’s been holding on to it ever since, waiting for the right moment to present it— or so he tells himself. 

(He may or may not have tried to interpret it himself a few times, having an affinity for horticulture himself, with no luck, unfortunately.)

“Oh, Crowley!” Aziraphale breathes. Awe shimmers in his eyes as they rake over the cover, and he traces a finger gently across the binding.

When he tears his eyes from the book to look at Crowley, Crowley’s heart stutters in his chest.

“This is… Did you… Where did you...” He can’t seem to finish any coherent thoughts, too caught up in it all.

“I came across it in Vienna, once. Was in the area, planting the seeds for the Thirty Years’ War and I just… found it,” Crowley explains simply. “Figured this Emperor Rudolph character wouldn’t miss it too much, ‘specially once he lost all his titles. He was a bit too preoccupied by that for any light reading.” A grin curls onto his lips. “Snagged a few of his paintings, too. He had quite the collection, that one. Exquisite stuff.” 

“You _ stole _ it?” Aziraphale gasps, clutching the book to his chest.

Crowley laughs and shakes his head. “Of course I didn’t, angel. For the sake of your honor.” If Crowley decidedly leaves out the bit about how the book was meant to be on its way to Jacobus Horcicky de Tepenecz, the head of Rudolph’s botanical gardens in Prague, when he found it, well. What Aziraphale doesn’t know won’t kill him.

Aziraphale relaxes at that, and that bashful smile of his returns to his lips. “Oh, my dear,” he starts, “do forgive me for saying this, I know you don’t much care for this kind of sentiment, but it’s very sweet of you. A really lovely gesture. I… well, I quite lov—”

“Where are you going to put it?” Crowley interrupts, far too quickly and far too loudly. His pulse hammers in his ears; Aziraphale had nearly had him there.

He isn’t exactly sure what’s making him do this anymore, why he still keeps stopping Aziraphale from saying those words. It’s happened enough that Crowley theoretically shouldn’t be caught off guard by it. Or by the fact that Aziraphale _ wants _ to say them, keeps trying to say them. It’s just… it’s _ scary _ . Crowley’s never had someone love him like this before; _ he’s _ never loved someone like this before. It’s a very new territory for him. And that’s a big step. Voicing those words makes it very very _ real _.

“I— what?” Aziraphale says, eyebrows pinched together at the unexpected interruption.

“Where are you going to put it?” Crowley repeats, calmer this time. “I don’t suppose you have a medieval medical practices section somewhere in here, do you?”

“Actually, I do,” Aziraphale replies, shoulders doing a little shimmy as he perks up. “I wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong idea, though, and think they can try to purchase this one. No, this one will go somewhere safe.”

Aziraphale takes the book into the backroom, Crowley hot on his heels. He walks over to a shelf just above where he keeps his collection of wine (part of his collection, at least) and starts to shuffle a few of the books there around to make room for the new one.

Crowley instantly recognizes the books as other ones he’s gifted Aziraphale over the years. His stomach somersaults and his heart thuds against his ribcage.

A soft “o-oh” is punched out of Crowley. 

_ Aziraphale keeps his books separate _. They’re so special to him that he stores them away on their very own shelf in his private back room so that not a single other soul can even think about taking them. It hits Crowley much harder than it really should.

A soft touch to his forearm snaps him back to the bookshop, and he quickly straightens up and schools his features into something that doesn’t completely show his cards like he’s sure the lovesick slip up on his face just did.

Aziraphale beams at him brightly. “Now that that’s in its proper home, what do you say we go get a spot of lunch then?”

“Anything you’d like, angel.”

+1

Dinners with Aziraphale are nice, but it’s afterwards that Crowley always looks forward to. More often than not they end up in Aziraphale’s bookshop, whether it’s to crack open a bottle (or three) of lovely vintage wine or to just sit around and enjoy each other’s company. Either way, Crowley enjoys it very much.

This time they opted to forego the wine, having indulged in a bottle of bubbly champagne at the restaurant. Instead of drinking, they’re simply relaxing. Aziraphale has a book in his lap, turning the page every so often, while Crowley sprawls himself across the cushy sofa and flicks on the television to play softly in the background.

Every so often Aziraphale will pause his reading to start up a conversation with Crowley, who immediately loses interest in whatever Dorothy, Rose, Blanche, and Sophia are getting up to in favor of giving his undivided attention to his angel.

At one point, Aziraphale decides, mid-discussion, that he’s going to make them some tea. He bustles into the little kitchenette alcove, but doesn’t stop his flow of thought, instead choosing to carry on in hopes that Crowley will continue to listen.

And he does. Mostly. Without Aziraphale physically present, though, Crowley finds himself focusing more on the mere sound of his voice than the exact words he’s saying. It’s very soothing, his voice. Soft and warm like a blanket on a cold day, yet bright and enthusiastic when he really gets going.

Given the chance, Crowley could listen to him speak endlessly.

“Your tea,” Aziraphale announces, drawing Crowley’s attention back to him. He holds out his favorite angel wing mug for Crowley to take (he knows how much Crowley loves to use it despite the way he pretends to turn his nose up at it each time Aziraphale offers it to him), steam rising from the dark liquid below. “Just the way you like it, my dear,” Aziraphale adds with an eye-crinkling smile.

And it hits Crowley then, so hard that he nearly drops the tea. Despite the fact that he’s never let those three little words slip past Aziraphale’s lips once, Aziraphale still finds a way to make them known. It’s through his actions, like how he brings Crowley tea ‘just the way he likes it’, or how he’ll make room beneath his umbrella for Crowley when they’re walking outside and it starts to drizzle. It’s through his words, the other ones, like when he tells Crowley to let him know when he gets home after dropping him off at the bookshop and to drive safely, or when he comes across a line in a book and tells him it made him think of Crowley. It’s everywhere in everything, so seamlessly interwoven that Crowley hasn’t even seen it until now.

But he has. He does.

And he doesn’t just see it in Aziraphale’s behavior. He can see it in his _ own _, too. 

It’s the way he always saves the last few bites of his desserts for Aziraphale so he can push his plate over and see that lovely surprised smile grace his face, and the way he’ll casually hand over an old book Aziraphale had been waxing poetic about a few days back but could somehow never find a copy of anywhere. It’s the “anywhere you want, I’ll take you” that always stands in offer, and the “I was in the neighborhood” he drawls every time he pops into the bookshop unannounced just to spend some time with Aziraphale.

It’s the unspoken “wherever you go, I go” that sits between them. The silent “I’ll still be here when you’re ready.”

Aziraphale is completely unaware of the revelation dazzling Crowley’s mind as he retakes his seat in his comfy, overstuffed armchair and resumes his diatribe on the merit of James Joyce’s _ Ulysses _.

“—such lovely prose, and the stream of consciousness technique was really very clever, which truly makes it one of the greatest literary works in—”

“I love you,” Crowley blurts.

Aziraphale’s dialogue immediately cuts off, and he blinks over at Crowley, mouth falling open into a perfectly round little ‘o’ shape.

And, he didn’t actually mean to say that. The words just kind of tumbled right out of his mouth, like they had a mind of their own. But now that they’re out there, it almost feels like a weight has been lifted off of Crowley’s shoulders. It feels _ good _. 

But a silence settles between them, and it stretches on for just long enough that Crowley starts to rethink it all. Has he made a mistake? Is this not what Aziraphale wants to hear? Is it not what he has wanted to _ say _ for years now?

Crowley’s about to open his mouth to take it all back, to somehow play it off as a joke, but Aziraphale beats him to it.

“Do you mean that?” Aziraphale asks, softly, hopefully.

Crowley swallows and nods. “‘Course I do, angel,” he replies.

Aziraphale lets out a breath and a giddy giggle bubbles up. “_Crowley_,” he says, and the adoration drips from the word. Crowley didn’t even _know _it was possible to convey _that_ _much _in just one word, with just _his name_.

Crowley’s forehead knits up in sympathy. “M’sorry for making you wait so long,” he says. 

A soft look flashes across Aziraphale’s face and he sets his book down and rises from his seat. He’s at Crowley’s side in only two steps, and he comes to a stop at the foot of the chair. He lowers himself to his knees so he’s level with Crowley and pushes into the space between Crowley’s so he’s close enough to touch. His hands are gentle and warm as they cup either side of Crowley’s face. A thumb tenderly caresses a cheekbone. “Oh, my dear, you’re worth the wait, no matter how long.”

Crowley inhales sharply through his nose. The words ring deep in his core and unleash an overwhelming wave of emotions inside of him. And suddenly it’s too much, everything he’s feeling. It’s so _ strong _ and so _ staggering _. So he does the only thing he can think of to properly convey them all.

He surges forward to catch Aziraphale in a searing kiss. 

His lips are as soft as he imagined they’d be, pillowy and warm, molding to fit against Crowely’s like they were made for each other. He vaguely tastes of hazelnut from the Egyptian Hazelnut Cake they’d shared earlier in the day, and Crowley can’t get enough.

As far as kisses go, it’s not perfect. Far from it, in fact. Despite having existed for millenia, neither one of them has all that much experience with this kind of thing. But that’s besides the point. To Crowley, it’s absolutely perfect. Because it’s Aziraphale. Because they love each other.

“I love you,” Crowley interrupts the kiss to murmur into his mouth. He has quite the knack for interrupting, so it seems. But it’s long overdue, so he says it again. “I love you, angel.”

Aziraphale smiles against Crowley’s lips, then kisses them once more, soft, sweet, fleeting. He presses his forehead against Crowley’s, their noses bumping in the middle of their faces.

Crowley’s eyes flutter open, just enough to peek at Aziraphale. And he looks so at peace like this, eyes closed, content smile pulling at his lips. _ That’s because of me _, Crowley thinks, and a zing goes down his spine.

Aziraphale stays like this for a moment, still holding Crowley’s face, eyes closed, smiling happily to himself. Then he tips his head back far enough that he can properly look into Crowley’s eyes. “Crowley, I love you too.”

“I love you.” He punctuates it with a kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth. “I love you.” Another to his now fluttering eyelids. “I love you.” A third to his forehead. 

It almost seems like now that he’s finally said it, he won’t stop. Like every _ I love you _ Crowley never let him speak, and some he never even got the chance to try and say, comes spilling out. Boundless and uncontrollable. 

It’s completely overwhelming; Crowley almost feels like he could _ cry _ from how full his heart feels.

Aziraphale finds Crowley’s lips once more, and draws him in, kissing him slowly, deeply, tenderly. Like he’s the most precious thing to exist.

“I love you, my dear darling boy.”

With every repetition, with each time it’s said, that lingering feeling of fear and that stubborn worry starts to ebb away. Gradually, but surely, until not even one single doubt is left in Crowley’s mind.

Because this time is different. This time he isn’t blindly putting his faith in someone that isn’t there. This isn’t God. 

It’s Aziraphale. And there’s nothing ineffable about Aziraphale or the way he feels about Crowley.

Aziraphale loves him.

It’s as simple as that.

And he loves Aziraphale.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Let me know what you think with a kudos and a comment! 
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/brooklynbabybucky) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/BrklynBabyBucky)! :)


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